


Edge of a Blade

by crackinthecup



Series: Ends and Beginnings [15]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Character Study, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/pseuds/crackinthecup
Summary: Melkor claims he loves Mairon and in his own twisted way, that may very well be true. But it is not a gentle thing.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: Ends and Beginnings [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112774
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Edge of a Blade

You grab the knife, press it against his throat. Mairon looks up at you in something that is not quite fear. You know a part of him needs this as much as you do, but he would deny it if questioned. You let him keep his lies.  
  
You trail the knife down between his clavicles, hard enough to leave a bright red line scored into his skin; not quite hard enough to draw blood. His breathing quickens as you drag it lower still. The tip of it nudges against the base of his cock, and he whines, straining against his bonds. You smile, then settle yourself more firmly astride his thighs to stop him from moving too much. You don’t want to hurt him, not here, not now. You just want to make him come undone.  
  
You start to trail the knife up his cock.  
  
"My lord, please don’t—"  
  
You clamp a hand to his mouth, his plea muffled and unintelligible against your palm. It’s so delectably easy to make him beg when you know him as well as you do. You wonder why he even bothers. He’s always been tenacious, you suppose. No matter: you enjoy it, seeing him fall apart at your hands, his composure peeling away bit by inexorable bit. You feel him go rigid beneath you as you move the knife upwards, tracing the swollen veins that twist over his cock; but he makes no further attempt to plead or get away.  
  
"Good boy," you say, digging your fingertips into his cheeks harder than necessary. You can _feel_ his cock twitching.  
  
You grin to yourself. His body betrays him like clockwork; it’s almost endearing. You tap the flat of the knife against his tip, making him flinch violently. You smear it through the pre-come dripping from him, one side of it and then the other, and let it glint in the light. He watches the knife and you watch him. Slowly, deliberately, you remove your hand from his mouth and lift the knife to his face, pressing the flat of it against his lips.  
  
He looks up at you. It is less a question than a glare. He knows very well what you want him to do. You let him have his little moment of indecisiveness. You know he will obey you. Eventually he parts his lips, holding your gaze as he licks his own pre-come off the knife. A groan bubbles in your throat at the sight, and you swallow it back down.  
  
“I should make you my slave,” you say, turning the knife so he can lick the other side of it.  
  
“Am I not already your slave?”  
  
His tone is light, but you know him well enough by now to realise he isn’t teasing. You put the knife away, then you pause for a moment. You can deal with this later, you decide.  
  
For now, you simply flip him over, spreading his legs and positioning yourself to enter him. Your own cock is as hard as it’s ever been, but you wait for just a little longer. You twist your fingers in his hair, painfully yanking his head back. You lean over him, pressing your lips to his ear, and the helpless little moan that escapes him goes straight to your cock.  
  
“Oh no, Mairon,” you say, pausing to catch the tip of his ear between your teeth, to feel him shiver. “If you were my slave, I would fuck you over and over again without once letting you have your own pleasure, and then I would chain you up at the foot of the bed like a good little pet, panting with need and disgustingly eager to please.”  
  
You wish you could see his face properly, but he is not too subtly grinding his hips into the mattress and that is all the proof you need.  
  
“Something tells me you wouldn’t even mind.”  
  
“That’s not true—“ he begins to say, but you grab him by the nape of the neck and force his head down into the pillows, perhaps more roughly than you intended. You want to break him sometimes. Gut him and let him bleed out all his hopes and fears and innermost secrets in your arms. You’d make him lick it all up afterwards.  
  
But no—you’ve done this before. The ruined bodies of countless elves litter the dungeons of Angband. They become dumb, subservient, dull. Everyone breaks the same. No: that is not the end he deserves.  
  
He’ll come to you himself; he will bare his heart to you of his own accord. It will be slow, you know that, but for this, you can wait.  
  
You keep a firm hold on his neck, pinning him to the bed as you enter him in one hard thrust. He screams and tries to twist away from the pain of it, but there’s nowhere for him to go.  
  
He’ll get over it.  
  
You make an involuntary noise as you start to move inside him. You’ve bedded him more times than you care to count, but this—the heat of him, the feel of his skin against yours—always takes your breath away. You reach beneath him to stroke his cock, and he arches into you, into your thrusts, moaning hot and filthy into the sheets.  
  
_How can you say you are not willing_ , you think, _when you bend like molten metal beneath my touch?_ But you don’t say anything. You simply fuck him harder until he’s screaming his pleasure beneath you, his seed dripping through your fingers to splatter all over the sheets. You let go of his neck, letting him turn his head aside to breathe. He’s so beautiful like this, all flushed cheeks and pliant flesh. You can’t hold out much longer either.  
  
You bury yourself to the hilt inside of him as your orgasm grips you. You’ve always done this, slamming in as deep as he can take you, deep enough to split him open, deeper deeper deeper until you’ve caressed every raw, horrid, wondrous part of him and you can feel his heartbeat on your tongue. He, at least, is _yours_.  
  
You hold him afterwards. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and when he does, he tells you about a new forging technique he’s experimenting with. You simply listen. Neither of you has the right words for any of this.


End file.
